"Please, sir, what will you have for breakfast?" Being by this time
decently dressed, Wade opened the door.

"Hello!" he said.

"Good morning," answered Zephania.

If he had not been informed that her age was fifteen Wade would have
supposed Zephania's years to be not over a baker's dozen. She was a
round-faced, smiling-visaged, black-haired, black-eyed, ruddy-cheeked
little mite who simply oozed cheerfulness and energy. She wore a
shapeless pink cotton dress which reached almost to her ankles, and over
that a blue-checked apron which nearly trailed on the floor. Her sleeves
were rolled elbow-high and one little thin hand clutched a dish-cloth as
a badge of office. Wade stared dubiously at Zephania and Zephania smiled
brightly back.

"Look here, my child," said Wade, "how old are you, anyway?"

"Fifteen in March, sir."

"Next March?"

"No, sir, last."

"You don't look it."

"No, sir, folks say I'm small for my age," agreed Zephania, cheerfully.